Gemotions

The peeling wallpaper, the faded floral patterns, the scent of lavender and something else, something indefinable, lingered in the air. "Well," Mark said, rubbing his hands together with a careless grin, "Let's get started." His sister, Olivia, just stared at the kitchen table, refusing to touch anything.

The kitchen. Where Grandma made cookies, where she told stories. Where she died. Olivia's hands began to shake uncontrollably. She thought she could still smell the coffee that used to brew there every morning.

Mark was already opening cabinets, pulling out dishes. Olivia couldn’t move. Her heart hammered against her ribs. The clatter of the plates felt like a direct assault, each sound driving a spike into her skull. She clamped her hands over her ears, the image of her grandmother sitting at that very table, frail and weak, burned into her mind. She needed to leave. Now.